


When the Lights Go Down

by NoisyNoiverns



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Old Age, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoisyNoiverns/pseuds/NoisyNoiverns
Summary: After all's said and done, Saren and Nihlus are finally,finally,able to rest.





	When the Lights Go Down

Normally, these days, Saren’s eyes open when they feel like it. The years of fighting with an alarm or being bribed out of bed with a plate of hot food are long past him, and he can sleep as he pleases. He doesn’t have to get up to speak to the Council, or jump into combat as mercs find the tree he’d curled up in for the night. He can simply crawl under the covers at the end of the day, press against the warm, thrumming body of his husband, and rest.

Today, Saren wakes to the gentle rustle of leaves outside the bedroom window, a spirit coaxing him to open his eyes and come see the day it brought.

They had left the window open the night before. _It’s cool out tonight,_ Nihlus had coaxed. _It’s a nice night. We can sleep with the window open. Get some fresh air._ And Saren had agreed, let him open the window with the old gintla tree just beyond it, enjoyed the sudden soft breeze as it danced inside.

But he’d made Nihlus sleep with his back to the window, so his bulk would protect Saren’s small, spindly frame. _I’m cold, Nihlus._ He was cold a lot, these days. Nihlus always just pulled up the blankets further over them both and held him closer against his big, warm core. _Go to sleep, I’ll keep you warm._

He’s awake before Nihlus today. He usually is, now. It’s strange, he thinks. Where he used to sleep as late as possible, and need to be coaxed out from under the covers besides, now he wakes of his own volition, gets out of bed to watch the sunrise while his husband slumbers. He missed the sun on the Citadel. In the twilight of the Wards, the sun is a murky concept, a lone star somewhere out in the nebula that maybe, if you’re very lucky, the station might turn just right at a certain time of year for you to get a passing glimpse from the docks. When he visits Palaven, the harsh radiation drives him inside, forces him to cover up with clothing and plate ointments to protect his unpigmented plates and skin. Trebia is not a kind sun to him. But here on Carthaan, the magnetosphere protects him, and he can watch Nolios peek over the edge of the prairie like any other turian, content in the peaceful stillness before the rest of the settlement begins to stir.

And that’s what he does today. He puts on a pot of kava, slides open the glass door in the kitchen, and sits on the top step of the back porch. The morning dew is overpowering, but that’s alright. Another thing he missed on the Citadel.

In the morning silence, faded, fuzzy memories come back to him. The long, feathery prairie grass beyond the porch steps, now reaching his knees as an adult, was over his head as a child, a wild jungle ripe for exploring. It tickled his nose back then, and scratched at his hands when he went too fast, but a child cared little for such things. Their first winter here, in the old house where he’d spent the first five years of his life before an alarm rang out and his mother said _run,_ when the grass fell over and went dormant for the season, they’d found a couple old toys, half-buried in dirt, waiting for their child to come back for them. A model cruiser, a clay shatha, a ball. He’d cleaned them up and given them places of honor in the living room. It was only right.

The sun is high enough it’s starting to warm his weathered face. It’s time to go back in.

He makes his kava in silence. He’ll only be here for a few minutes, it isn’t worth the effort of turning something on. There’s a presence in his mind, something else in the room, drifting around behind him as he retrieves the honey and sugar and cream. His hands still, his breath frozen in his throat. A mandible flickers, and he listens.

He gets the faint sense he really should have washed his hands before handling the honey.

He’s seen vids where the people who die in a house haunt it forever, drive away any new occupants. He doesn’t think his mother would be that malicious. He tells her _good morning_ and takes his kava back to the studio.

When Saren was three, his father would pull up a second stool next to his own, let him sit and watch as he worked at the wheel. Sometimes, he would even sit him in his lap and guide his tiny, unsteady hands in shaping the clay. Now that he’s a hundred and three, his hands shake for a different reason, but when he wets the wheel, sets down a lump of clay, and starts it turning, they hold true. As a Spectre, his trembling limbs would have spelled his end on the battlefield, but here, in his father’s old pottery studio, the quakes are absorbed by the clay beneath them, and it doesn’t matter anymore.

Today, he walks in, turns on the lights, and sets his kava down on the drying rack. He’d brought in some pieces from the kiln the night before, and he wants to glaze them before he does anything else, or he’ll forget until the next day. The old radio by the window still works fine, no matter how much Nihlus mutters about the sound quality, and after a moment of fiddling the room is filled with symphonic metal. Some band he doesn’t recognize, but they sound acceptable enough. He lights a candle for the spirits and gets to work. He welcomes the company.

Nihlus doesn’t join him until he’s on the last bowl that needs to be glazed. Most days, he brings breakfast, but once a week, as he does today, all he carries is his mug of kava. He does not smell like breakfast, and he has Saren’s cloak over one arm. He waits for Saren to finish what he’s doing, patiently silent. He doesn’t interrupt Saren when he’s glazing anymore. Not since the time he was so startled by Nihlus’s voice he dropped a mug into a mostly-full bucket, and had to go in almost up to his shoulder to fish it back out. It was not a pleasant texture. Nihlus had apologized, and Saren had assured him it was only an accident and mostly the fault of his own untrustworthy joints, but Nihlus still keeps his mouth shut, just to be safe. Saren is more amused than anything, but he appreciates that he cares.

He sets the bowl down to dry and flicks drops of glaze off his claws, looking at Nihlus to indicate it’s safe to speak. His husband’s mandibles lift, and he motions with the arm holding Saren’s cloak, dropping into a small bow. “Would you care to join me on a walk to the bakery?” he asks, subvocals lilting and friendly. They both already know the answer, but Nihlus likes to indulge in the old song and dance anyway.

Saren’s chest thrums with a quiet purr. He likes to indulge in it, too. “Is it midweek already? Let me wash my hands.”

He almost changes his shirt, too, but decides against it. This isn’t the Citadel. This is Ifura, a small town on a small colony world. There’s nobody here to see him but those who already know him. A few specks of glaze won’t make much of a difference.

He does wonder, some days, what kind of a sight they must make walking down the street. The famed Nihlus Kryik and feared Saren Arterius, arm in arm, with not an armored gauntlet or half-concealed firearm in sight. Nihlus’s face has gone maybe half-white by now, handsome russet faded to a ruddy beige in the center of his face and spreading with each passing winter. He’s still every inch the dashing soldier who made Saren’s heart flutter on first sight all those years ago, but it’s a quieter beauty, more dignified. If you don’t look beyond his beautiful face and soldier-proud posture, you won’t notice the slow, deliberate steps or the arms curling close to his torso to heat hands that just never seem to stay warm anymore. On the other hand, Saren’s albinism keeps him as ageless as ever, bone-white and pristine with only the cracks in his plates and the tiredness in his eyes to hint he might be more than a fresh recruit ready for basic. The wobble in his walk and the stiffness in his wrists betray him, but, as with Nihlus, nobody ever looks closely enough to see them. It’s odd, he thinks, that they can be only two years apart in age yet look so different. But then, some day Nihlus’s face will have gone almost as pale as his own, and won’t _that_ be novel.

The bakery isn’t far. In such a small town, nothing really is. The baker isn’t much older than them, and talking about passing the business on to his daughter soon. She loves the work, he says, and he’s quite proud of her. He comes out to sit and visit with them on their weekly trips. It’s nice to spend time with someone their own age, they all agree. His granddaughter is thirteen, and works the counter in the mornings. She pours them all a mug of escori tea, free of charge. Saren suspects she’s trying to encourage her grandfather to sit down and socialize more than work. It does wonders for the arthritis, so he simply thanks her and keeps his mouth shut. The baker was nine during the raid, he had told Saren one morning, early on, with sorrow in his subvocals. Some of his stories include Saren’s parents, his brother, even him. Saren appreciates it.

They have their tea, and their sticky rolls, and their friendly chatter. Today’s topic is sports, and how Carthaan has a good clawball team this year, and maybe they’ll make it to the championship this time. Nihlus disagrees. Saren and the baker insist they have to have a good year sooner or later. They can at least all agree Veretilia Epiraka being traded to the Imperials was a crime. By the time they reach that conclusion, Saren’s plate has been empty for half an hour, and the last centimeter of tea in his mug has gone cold. The baker has to get back to work. They say their goodbyes, and their _see you next week_ s, and they part ways.

They decide to go the long way home, a winding path through the little gridwork of shops. Nihlus wants to enjoy the fresh air while they still can, before the air grows too cold for old joints, and Saren likes to look at the window displays. People greet them as they pass, a wave or a nod or a friendly call. It’s a new experience for Saren, still strange after thirty years, but a welcome one. On the Citadel, his name was a hushed whisper, a startled realization as strangers recognized the emblem on his shoulder and the spines jutting back from his cheekbones. Here, it’s a welcoming trill, a warm note of recognition.

He wonders, as he often does, if it’s his age that makes them more friendly to him. His advancing age, his obvious retirement, his way of leaning ever-so-slightly on Nihlus for support as they walk. Or perhaps it's that this is home, this is where there are still elderly birds who remember when it was  _Desinian and Veniria_ 's home rather than  _Saren and Nihlus_ 's, where half their peers grew up fighting for his charismatic brother's favor in picking teams. Perhaps, a little voice in the back of his head murmurs, it's because Carthaan is  _home_ more than the Citadel ever was.

Whatever the reason, people don’t seem afraid of him quite so much anymore. He’s content simply knowing that.

They pass under an awning, and in the shade he can see the sparks dancing across his knuckles. His biotics flicker without being called more frequently now, as the doctors warned him they would. Biotics of his power could only stay stable so long before they began to eat him alive. The medications help, let him age like a normal turian, but he knows it’s only a matter of time before the sparks and arcs and flares come with every motion he makes like they’re trying to escape their prison of bone and muscle and plate. He’s heard old Cabals admit it’s painful. Part of him hopes something else takes him before the day comes.

He shakes his hand, and the sparks fade. Troublesome old things.

They stop in at the art store that doubles as a gallery, run by a crestless forty years their junior whose plates are always streaked with paint, but never the same way twice. She sells Saren’s pieces, both in the store and on the extranet, and provides him with clay, in exchange for a share of the kolakoe from the tree in their front yard and the occasional stint of minding the store when she has an exhibit out of town. The tree produces more than they can eat, and they like any excuse to spend a day out of the house. Even Saren, tired and arthritic hermit though he may be, enjoys a change in routine now and then. It works out.

Nihlus stops to chat with her at the counter. Saren ignores them and goes to the back, to look at glazes. He’s running low on his favorite shade of purple. Next to the rows of samples are a display case with some of his own work, with a small sign holding information on how to commission the artist. He stays anonymous by request, all commissions go through the store owner; the only clue to his identity is the small, simple logograph on the underside, his father's signature with an additional line to indicate _son of_. It's safe enough. The identity of _Saren Arterius's father_ isn't common knowledge. One mandible lifts at the small note under the sign warning that the artist has a wait list.

He decides to wait on getting new glaze. He still has plenty of other colors he should work through first. Nihlus picks up a few new paints, and they head home. By now, the sun is nearly overhead. They walk in companionable silence, simply enjoying the day. The sun is warm on Saren’s plates, the breeze cool through his crest, and Nihlus’s hand heavy in his own. The neighbors’ children are shrieking and laughing on the playground at the corner, under the disinterested eye of the teenager who lives across the street and one down from Saren and Nihlus. He looks up at their footsteps, twists his head back and to the side respectfully, then returns to watching the young ones. Nihlus purrs quietly, but says nothing. Saren considers, then squeezes his hand. They had _that_ conversation _ages_ ago.

At home, Saren greets his family’s spirits, lights the candle in the window for them, and settles in his favorite spot on the couch. When he was six, a sniveling mess of trauma and grief, his brother and grandmother would assure him that lighting a candle in the room they planned to spend time in would tell Mother and Father where he planned to be, so they could come and sit with him. Maybe it was childish to keep doing it as an adult, maybe it wasn’t. He didn’t see any harm in it. He wasn’t so sure if he believed in the Spirit of Palaven, or of the unit, or of much anything else, but he could believe in the spirits of the dead.

On days when his morning wasn’t interrupted to walk to the bakery, he would spend the day working, sometimes on commissions, sometimes on more generic pieces, sometimes just on whatever he wanted to do that day, obligations be damned, and emerge for food when he got hungry. But today was a bakery day, so instead he curls up on the couch, accepts a nuzzle from Nihlus with a rusty purr, and settles in to watch vids for the afternoon. The vidscreen turns on to a documentary on some new development in neuroscience. Acceptable.

Nihlus disappears to put his paints away. He doesn’t come back for another hour. When he does, he laughs about starting to move things around so Saren won’t have to stretch too far to retrieve what needs to go in the kiln for the next firing, and getting distracted just organizing. Saren laughs, too, and uncurls so Nihlus can lie on the couch next to him and lean on his shoulder. “Thank you for cleaning up,” he offers, turning his head to run his teeth along the topmost blade of Nihlus’s crest. “However futile it may be.”

Nihlus chuffs his amusement, moves his head to allow him better access. They try to keep the studio organized, they really do, but between Nihlus’s painting and Saren’s pottery, it takes barely days for their cleanup efforts to prove a waste. A few years back, they found a small chalkboard at the thrift store, and started keeping tally of how many days they could keep the studio clean after organizing it, just as a joke between themselves. Their record is a month and a half. “If we make it to a week, we should do something,” Nihlus purrs. His voice is rough with age, but it carries his humor just as well as ever. “Date night in the city?”

Saren snorts. “Only if we make it to a _month._ A week is vid night.”

“That’s just a normal weekend.” Nihlus reaches back to pull a blanket down off the back of the couch.

“Ah, but this time, we’ll use the _good_ alcohol.” Saren helps him get it unfolded and spread over him, then settles back into his corner, resting one hand on Nihlus’s shoulder.

They banter a little more, then let it die out, letting their amused purrs be gradually replaced by the documentary narrator’s calming baritone. This is the point where, Saren is sure, some brash young thing with something to prove and a galaxy to save would come pounding on their door, begging them to come out of retirement for one last mission. At least, it would be in the vids. No Spectre has come around asking for help in years. Their only visitors from that life are by invitation, and he’s perfectly happy with that. The last he heard, all of their old comrades are dead or retired by now, like them, except a couple of the asari. Avitus and Macen are happy in their own small town, just a relay jump away if they feel like meeting up, which they do once a month. Ezekian is a grandfather, Calposcus has her own garage, Bau died of old age, Gurji went out in typical dramatic Gurji fashion, Vasir… well, nobody’s quite sure _what_ Vasir’s up to, but that’s about how it’s always been, so Saren isn’t concerned.

If he never sees Shepard again, it will be too soon. Nihlus disagrees, so Saren puts up with them twice a year while they and Nihlus chat and catch up over tea. His only request is they please be careful with the blue mugs, the handles are fragile and he can’t find that color glaze anymore.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he must have, because when he opens his eyes again Nihlus has left, leaving the blanket tucked in around Saren to keep him warm. The vidscreen is off, and music and the smell of cooking meat is drifting in from the kitchen. He could have sworn it was his turn to cook dinner tonight.

He yawns, stretches, winces at how his joints crackle and pop, and gets to his feet. He can at least offer _help._

Nihlus doesn’t notice when he enters the room, the sizzling of the meat and the rhythmic chopping of his knife hiding Saren’s shuffling. He used to walk almost perfectly silently, but now it causes him just a little too much pain. He taps his hand against the counter to be courteous.

Nihlus turns to look, lifts his mandibles in greeting, and goes back to chopping. “You’re awake.”

“Much to the dismay of everyone else.” Saren’s mandibles flutter as he walks over. “I thought it was my turn to cook.”

“It is, but I didn’t want to wake you. We’ll swap with tomorrow night.”

Saren hums agreeably and leans on the counter next to the cutting board. “Is there anything I can help with?”

“No, thank you, I’m keeping it simple tonight. I wouldn’t mind some company, though.”

So that’s what Saren provides. Nihlus turns down the music so neither of them is struggling to be heard, and Saren sits at the kitchen table, and they talk. Some new topics, some old, some speculating on the future, some reminiscing about the past. Saren isn’t usually much of a conversationalist, but he’s always found it easy to talk to Nihlus.

Dinner is casual, as they’ve always done it. Their discussion of which colony’s cultural cuisine is best is only barely interrupted. They eat, they talk, they put the dishes away, they go back to the couch to watch vids again, now with Nihlus commanding the remote. Earlier in the season, they would go outside and sit on the porch, maybe take a walk in the evening air, enjoy the world around them settling down to sleep. But now summer is turning to fall, and the air is just slightly too cold. So they stay inside, watch a vid, chat a little more, and, earlier than they ever would have considered in their youth, eventually go back to their bedroom.

When he was young, Saren hated holding still. Peace seemed ominous, rest was just an opportunity for something to get him. The doctors said it was the dark energy crackling beneath his skin, driving him to motion. And he supposes part of it may have been. But now he’s old, and tired, and a quiet, peaceful day with his husband is all he asks for.

And, to his daily relief, all he gets. There is no action, no weapons drawn, no surge of electricity around him. There is only the wind across the grass, and the clay beneath his hands, and Nihlus at his side. Every day, he gets to take it slow and be at peace, and every night, as he does tonight, he gets to let his bones sink into the mattress, his head find its treasured place under Nihlus’s jaw, and his breath slow to a peaceful, steady beat as he falls asleep, content to let _this_ cycle, at least, go on until he fades.


End file.
